


Dear Diary

by MoreHuman



Series: It was very dark [1]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Anxious David Rose, CW: anachronistic footwear, Canon Related, Canon Universe, Diary/Journal, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Insecurity, Pansexual Character, Pre-Canon, author vents vicariously about writing, early 2000s fashion trends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:09:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28973373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoreHuman/pseuds/MoreHuman
Summary: Oh my GOD, did I really just write “Dear Diary” like some kind of cliché? Who am I, Anne of Green Gables? Bridget Jones???Or: One time Alexis did a book report on David’s diary. This is that diary.
Relationships: David Rose/Original Female Character, David Rose/himself
Series: It was very dark [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2125170
Comments: 22
Kudos: 53





	Dear Diary

**Author's Note:**

> Based off the following lines from S5 ep2 of Schitt's Creek:  
> Ted: You've never written in a journal have you?  
> Alexis: No, um, but one time I did do a book report on David's diary, and it was very dark.
> 
> Many many thanks to [ICMezzo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ICMezzo/pseuds/ICMezzo) for having such great ideas, like this one, and letting me tag along! Without her this diary would contain far fewer canon references, and also it would not exist at all. For those reasons and more, it’s lucky that I’m not without her.
> 
> Any spelling/punctuation/grammar errors are all David’s. Yeah. Let’s go with that.

_**September the thirteenth** _

Dear Diary,

Oh my GOD, did I really just write “Dear Diary” like some kind of cliché? Who am I, Anne of Green Gables? Bridget Jones???

_**September the fourteenth** _

I regret the multiple question marks. Multiple question marks are never correct.

_**September the fifteenth** _

I did some research, and it turns out Bridget Jones doesn’t start her entries with “Dear Diary.” And I’m not sure Anne of Green Gables kept a diary at all. So. I don’t even have a cultural reference for how clichéd I am.

_**September the sixteenth** _

I can’t believe I spent three hours in Smythson of Bond Street fondling journals by myself like some kind of pervert, oscillating between the embossed crocodile and the oxblood ostrich before deciding last second on the crossgrain lambskin, only to ruin it in the first three seconds.

But, I guess, since it’s already ruined, there’s no harm in continuing... If it turns me into Bridget Jones, so be it.

_**September the seventeenth** _

I should have mentioned that this is all an assignment from my expository writing professor. We’re supposed to challenge ourselves to write observations from our lives. Self reflection. Every single day. I’ve been assured no one’s ever going to read this, including my professor, which seems like it defeats the purpose, but whatever.

_**September the eighteenth** _

I just noticed that all my entries start with “I.” I am certain my therapist would have something to say about that, which is why she’ll never know anything about this little exercise.

_**September the nineteenth** _

You* know what doesn’t make any sense? That Americans insist on calling this place we’re in “college” even though “university” is right there in the name. It’s like they don’t hear how they sound. Like they think a university degree and a college degree are worth the same to the rest of the world. Don’t even get me started on the term “freshman” which is so demeaning and unnecessarily cute. You’d think, as the inventors of individualism, Americans would be better at sticking up for their own dignity than this.

Someone actually brought this up in class today, but he said it like “as a Canadian I find this linguistic difference very fascinating” so I couldn’t even agree with him without looking like a dweeb. Besides, everyone just kind of assumes I’m a native New Yorker from the way I dress and talk and carry myself and I don’t want to confuse things. It’s easier to just let people believe my insistence on calling myself a “first year in university” is an affectation I picked up during my summer in London.

*I started with a new pronoun this time! Proof that I’m capable of thinking of people other than myself. Take that, therapist who will never read this.

_**September the twentieth** _

Who exactly decided university students need to be subjected to so much forced socialization?

Today there was something called an “Org Fair” happening on the quad, and it was literally impossible to get anywhere without some overeager joiner trying to conscript you into god knows what. A club, a frat, a cult, who can tell the difference? Jell-O shots and Kool-Aid contain most of the same ingredients, I’m just saying. Everyone’s so desperate to shout at you about whatever group they’ve decided they belong to. Like that tells you anything about who they are except that they need to be around other people to survive. And like, I’m an adult. Let me be alone if I want.

I guess there was one that sounded maybe not terrible. It was called Walk of Frames, and the girl working the booth complimented my McQueen skull scarf, so there’s at least a baseline level of taste there. Despite the name, the group has nothing to do with physical exercise, thank god. They do tours of city museums and stuff like that, and that could be my scene. If I can get away with standing in solitude in front of some art and calling it a social extracurricular, I’ll be happy. They have an outing this weekend to the Whitney. I’ll think about it.

_**September the twenty-first** _

I didn’t leave my apartment today, so all I have to write about is the view from my balcony. Central Park at sunset looks ~~gilded in gold leaf~~ ~~golden like something that’s... gold~~ ~~touched by Midas’~~

OH MY GOD WRITING SUCKS

_**September the twenty-second** _

Went to the Walk of Frames thing at the Whitney. The girl from the booth was there, remembered my name, said she loved my style, and tried to high five me, so who knows what that’s about. I guess maybe when you’re surrounded by nothing but douchebags in double-popped collars, a Saint Laurent duster seems worth high fiving over? That is, if you accept the premise that anything is ever worth high fiving over, which I do not.

Her own style isn’t completely tragic, I have to say. She was wearing this geo print wrap dress that… I can’t place and it’s driving me crazy. Maybe it was vintage? The Hermès scarf was definitely vintage, and draped in a way that was, well, kind of witchy, if I’m being honest. But, like, Practical Magic witchy, not The Craft witchy, so I can sleep tonight. Of course she was also wearing chunky bracelets, which really overcommitted to the witchy vibe, but I shouldn’t have pointed that out because I think she took it as a compliment? Anyway, she ended up inviting herself on my planned solitary tour of the Wayne Thiebaud exhibit. Like solitude is something you can just tag along for.

People wouldn’t think it, probably, but I love Thiebaud. He knows how to make contradictions work for him. The mid-century commercial mise en scene done with traditional oil techniques. The mundane objects executed in over-vibrant colors. The visible brushwork that’s both messy and precise.

Still, it’s not like I’m about to hang a painting of yo-yos in my apartment, so that really was a spectacularly bad graduation gift from Dad. As usual he doesn’t get my aesthetic, like, at all.

Speaking of not getting it at all, this girl had no idea how to approach Thiebaud’s work. And I mean that literally. She kept rushing up to each one, leaning in distressingly close, and pointing out the most obvious details, like we haven’t all already seen the blue gumball outlined in orange next to the orange gumball outlined in blue in Three Machines. She put her face right up against the wall (ew) next to Pie Counter and tried to get me to look sideways at the paint texture with her. I guess the impasto was casting some interesting shadows in the gallery lighting, but it’s not like I was about to attempt that angle to see for myself.

She also called Thiebaud a cross between Andy Warhol and Edward Hopper, which, come on, is just the most obvious thing anyone could possibly say. This girl is so obvious. She called his paintings of ice cream “fun.” Of course they’re fun! It’s ice cream! But it’s not like fun is the point. It’s art.

When we finally got through the exhibit, she announced she was in “dire need” of actual ice cream and then left me alone, thank god. She did ask if I wanted to join her, and of course I did want ice cream, I’m only human, but I have that here at home where I can eat as much as I want.

She didn’t try to high five me when she left, but I could tell she kind of wanted to? She looks like she comes from one of those families that make physical contact when they say goodbye, like you see on TV. You know, who hug or whatever even though they’ll see each other in the next scene. She has that ordinary small-town-Swiss-Miss look, all big blue eyes and flaxen hair. (Is that what flaxen means? What is flax? Fuck, I should’ve just said blonde.) She’s very, very pale and in the natural light of the lobby I could see that she has freckles on her nose.

Her name is Ariadne. It’s a pretty good name.

_**September the twenty-third** _

I really resent being asked to do self reflection now, when my life is the most boring it’s ever been. Just three months ago I was joyriding on the family jet with boarding school royalty every weekend (you know, except for the times when they forgot to invite me and I overslept), and now every weekday I take a cab to go sit in a big room of people who wear mismatched sweats in public. On weekends I don’t usually take a cab anywhere. I spend a lot of time in the park.

I mean, not that this wasn’t always the plan. I shook off all my old friends over the summer for a reason. Same reason I don’t let anyone here know who I am or what family I come from. I had to try too hard in high school—I cared too much about whoever people thought I was. I deserve a break from all that. And isn’t that what university is supposed to be all about? Making a clean break, learning to be on your own?

So far I’m great at it. It just doesn’t make for very interesting writing.

_**September the twenty-fourth** _

I wish I knew what straight girls want when they look at me—a boyfriend or a gay best friend? Not that I’m good material for either, but they each require their own kind of evasive maneuvers.

_**September the twenty-fifth** _

Ran into Ariadne at the library today. She remembered telling me she works the information desk there, but I didn’t, so. I was looking for Schiller’s Aesthetic Education of Man and she’s the person who’s paid to know where that is, I guess.

(Also of course someone named Ariadne feels at home at the library. I bet her parents describe themselves as “literary” at dinner parties.)

Since I was already there, I decided to—I was about to write “rip off the band aid” but that’s disgusting. And now I wrote it anyway so, whatever, pretend I wrote something else.

I just flat out said: “I’m not gay, you know.” Because, like, there’s no benefit to being the gay best friend—no chance of getting laid, I mean—so I find it’s best to head that one off first.

And she laughed in this way that... I’m not sure how to describe it. It wasn’t at me. It wasn’t at anyone. It was just kind of… around? In the air. Like laughter is something that just happens to her sometimes, that comes and goes, not fueled by anything but itself.

Then she goes, “I know,” which I think is quite possibly the rudest thing anyone has ever said to me? And I was once heckled by Charlie Sheen during The Number.

“Not to brag, but I can tell when guys are into me.” Who says things like this to other people? When I asked what made her think I was into her, that laughter came back again. I really can’t explain how unnerving it is to be caught in the middle of a sound like that. I almost ended up telling her I’m not straight, either. Like that’s any of her business.

And then she just up and... asked me out? I think? We’re supposed to get “coffee” tomorrow, but I guess that could be code for anything.

_**September the twenty-sixth** _

Well. Coffee is code for coffee.

Or at least I had coffee. Ariadne had some kind of caffeinated dessert drink with caramel and cocoa powder that was trying to pass itself off as coffee. (It smelled kind of delicious, actually, but nothing can be worth the cost of everyone hearing you order it.)

She made a joke about noticing that I like my coffee black like I like my Rick Owens high tops, and I may have swallowed down the wrong pipe because she’s literally the first person here who’s noticed my shoes and hasn’t assumed they’re Converse. I swear if I get another nod of solidarity from the emo kids on campus I’m going to tell them that Pete Wentz sings ska when he’s wasted.

We had a long conversation about fashion after that, and I haven’t had one of those since that time I coincidentally booked a manicure next to Tim Gunn.

Her knowledge of the past few seasons’ runway collections is pretty abstract and surface level, but I guess that stuff must feel theoretical when you can’t afford it. Her practical knowledge, though... She designs and sews her own clothes. The reason I couldn’t recognize that geo print wrap dress from the other day is because it was one of hers. And the menswear-inspired vest she was wearing today, which she took off at one point to show me the inside seam of the darted waist that took her an entire weekend to hand sew. She’s not going to get invited to show at Fashion Week or anything, but I’m impressed by the skill.

Now that I know this about her, I can see it in her hands. She has a sewist’s fingers, nimble and capable. They’re constantly moving, but with such exquisite strength and control. I’m not sure how I didn’t notice before but now, well. They’re the kind of fingers you can’t help but want on you, once you notice them.

I must have tuned out thinking about her hands for a bit, because suddenly she was talking more about herself than about fashion, which I guess is what I get for ceding conversational control to someone else. Blah blah she wishes she could have studied fashion, but for blah blah reasons she chose something called Human Computer Interaction, a phrase I only remember because it sounds like the most boring porn search imaginable. I told her that and she laughed. She said something about needing to choose a practical major, and I’m not sure how the logic works on that—how is interacting with a machine more practical than making things with your hands? But I wasn’t really interested enough to ask.

She had to go not too long after that. She’s preparing for a show she has coming up, and that’s nice, I guess, that she’s still showing her fashion even if she’s decided to study something practical. And this time when she said goodbye, out on the street, she did touch me—I knew she was one of those! She put her hand on my arm and kissed my cheek and was like, “I had fun” which is easy for her to say, we were mostly talking about her. But for some reason I said I had fun too. I’m a follower that way. It’s something I need to work on.

Then she said we should see each other again sometime soon. Just declared it, like I didn’t even need to agree. Or she already knew I would agree. I’m not sure which is worse. And of course I did agree, because I thought by “soon” she meant “tonight” and by “see each other” she meant… well. Those hands. But no. She started talking about an “actual date” this weekend and what the fuck, what’s her play here?

Does she have a date kink or something?

_**September the twenty-seventh** _

Fuck, I actually really did need On the Aesthetic Education of Man at the library the other day and I forgot to get it and now I flunked my in-class essay. Fuck.

_**September the twenty-eighth** _

Good thing the add-drop period isn’t over yet, because there’s no way I can show my face in Philosophy of Art again. Maybe better luck next year.

_**September the twenty-ninth** _

Honestly I couldn’t even look at a pen for a few days after that mess so I’m filling these days in retroactively, and I don’t remember what happened yesterday. I certainly haven’t done any self reflection. Or is it “hadn’t” done any self reflection? Ugh, verbs.

_**September the thirtieth** _

I’m writing with a fountain pen. It’s funny how the words come out slow but when I read them back they sound fast in my head

Fast fast fast fast fast fast fast fast fast

How is that a word? It looks funny.

Yes I’m high.

_**October the first** _

Second date with Ariadne, and I still can’t figure out her deal. She won’t stop talking about herself, but it’s not even, like, interesting stuff? And I don’t think she’s even trying to make it interesting. Like, am I impressed that she comes from somewhere called Brainerd, Minnesota? Absolutely not, but it’s like she doesn’t even want me to be impressed. She just wants me to… know this stuff about her? I don’t get it.

If I were from some place called Brainerd (yes that’s how it’s spelled, I looked it up), it would take Jack Bauer himself to extract that information from me—though to be honest Elisha Cuthbert would probably have better luck than Kiefer Sutherland. But Ariadne offered it up freely. She led with it. We were sitting there with our milkshakes and she just up and told me the ridiculous name of this ridiculous town she’s from and three minutes later I knew more than I could ever possibly want to know about something called the Minnesota State Fair. I’m not exactly sure what it is, but it apparently involves things like spaghetti and meatballs on a stick (how?), and beauty pageants where grand prize is a sculpture of yourself made out of butter (what?), and portraits of Prince done in corn kernel mosaic (WHY?), and I’m just going to say it right now—I’m never setting foot in Minnesota.

You read that right, by the way. We were drinking milkshakes like some kind of Archie and Veronica date (I’m Veronica, obviously, though she’s really more of a Betty). It was one of the things she had planned for us to do. She planned things for us to do, like some kind of

Okay, I swear I had a point to make there but now I’m distracted thinking about how much better those comics would’ve been if it was Betty and Veronica going on dates all the time. Wow, what a missed opportunity.

Anyway, one of her plans involved riding to the ice cream place on bikes, which she pointed out you can rent from the student center. So not just bikes. Other people’s bikes. Public bikes. I spent so long ranting about germs that we didn’t even have time to get into the fact that I don’t know how. And then I got us a cab. And the peanut butter chocolate malt was fucking delicious.

But then she had more plans. She suggested watching a movie, which I’m always up for, and after a second where I had to pretend not to be horrified by the idea of going back to her dorm, she agreed to come to my place. On track so far. Until she was like “we can rent something next door,” and next door was. A Rose Video.

I know. But I had to. What was I supposed to say? “Sorry, I can’t go in here because my family owns the place”? “Sorry, I can’t go in here because I don’t want you to know who I am”? “Sorry, I can’t go in here and don’t ask any questions about it please, I’m not being weird, you’re being weird”?

I think I got away with playing it cool, in the end, but the cashier definitely did a double-take when we got up to the counter. Thanks, Dad, for your dumb tradition of hanging that family portrait in the employee break room, as if I actually have anything to do with this “family business” (trust me, if I did there wouldn’t be carpet anywhere near it), but at least it’s still pre-nose job. So I don’t think I’m fully recognizable anymore. I paid in cash just to be safe.

I guess I could’ve avoided going in if I’d insisted we watch something I already have at home, but that’s risky. Half my collection is stuff I don’t want to admit to owning, and the other half is stuff that, if she didn’t like it I’d have to never see her again. It seemed much safer to pretend to wander the shelves aimlessly while subtly leading her toward something good but not essential, and let her think she’d talked me into it. She didn’t make it easy.

The first thing she suggested was Moulin Rouge, which, absolutely not. Because then I’d have to explain all the reasons that movie makes me cry, which are, in order of intensity:

  * Romantic, consumptive death
  * Kylie Minogue existing
  * Ewan McGregor butchering the choreography
  * That time Mom mentioned my nighttime oopsie daisies in front of Nicole Kidman



So I had to lie and say I don’t care for the soundtrack and just pray that the Ladies Marmalade all forgive me. Christina especially.

She immediately made me regret mentioning soundtrack as a factor by pointing to City of Angels next. She had some very incorrect opinions about Angel being the best song to cry to (for one thing, she called it “In the Arms of the Angels,” and she’s lucky I kept listening after that). It’s not even the best Sarah McLaughlan song to cry to, but there’s no way to get into that without mentioning I followed Lilith Fair for two summers, and that’s a secret I’m taking to my grave.

We ended up renting Center Stage and making out on my couch almost all the way through it, and every part of that combination was better than I remember it being. It was a real relief when she kissed me during the opening sequence because finally, an unambiguous activity. She made it very clear that we would just be making out, and I made it very clear that we would need to pause to watch the final workshop performance and its reality-defying costume change, and that arrangement worked very well for both of us.

When the movie was over she had to go do some more work on her show. I’m like 87% sure it wasn’t just an excuse to leave? Because she invited me to come see it next week. I said I’d think about it.

Anyway, wow, I’m spending way too much time writing about this other person for something that’s supposed to be an exercise in self reflection. I better not flunk this course, too, because then

_**October the second** _

Sorry to leave you hanging in the middle of a sentence last night. Ariadne called as I was writing, said she was done working, and asked if she could come over. Which she did and then we kept each other pretty busy until late/early. It was

_**October the third** _

WHAT

_**October the fourth** _

THE

_**October the fifth** _

FUCK

_**October the sixth**_

Okay. I’m back. Where to begin.

The last time I sat down to write, first thing the morning after Ariadne came over, I was once again interrupted by my phone. This time it was Mom. She was calling before ten AM her time, so I knew it was either a drunk dial or something serious.

I picked up and was just able to make out the words “Agatha” and “Christie” and “whodunit” through her wailing and then. And then. I heard my shower turn on.

My first thought was “It’s a ghost” and honestly that might’ve been better. Because then there was singing. Enthusiastically bad singing, and I knew it was Ariadne. Ariadne who wasn’t in bed when I woke up. Ariadne who was supposed to be long gone by then. I know none of us want to do the walk of shame unshowered if we can help it, but singing that “Come tomorrow, tomorrow I’ll be gone” song while you do it takes an astounding lack of stealth.

Meanwhile Mom was still having some kind of breakdown in my ear, and I offered to help her run lines, assuming she had an audition for a Murder on the Orient Express adaptation or something. That was the wrong thing to say, because it turns out Agatha and Christie are the names of two of her wigs that had gone suddenly missing.

So now Mom was giving me a lecture about not taking “the grave crime of peruke pilferage” (I’m hoping by writing that phrase down I can erase it from my memory) seriously enough, and I didn’t even hear the shower turn off, but suddenly Ariadne was right there next to me, wearing a hand-embroidered peasant top I’d never seen her in before, still humming. Luckily I covered the phone in time. I’m pretty sure.

(It’s not that I don’t want my mother to know I had a hookup, I really don’t care. Just the fact that it was with a girl, well. Ever since she found out why I had to switch dormmates at school last year she’s had certain assumptions and… and it’s complicated, okay? I didn’t feel like getting into it.)

It was kind of a blur of juggling-two-conversations-at-once after that, and the price I had to pay for the privilege of being alone in my own apartment again was agreeing both to fly out to LA to help my mother track down “whoever was holding her girls hostage” and to go to Ariadne’s show this week.

I just got back in from LA just now. I left my journal behind so had to fill in the last few days from memory, I think I covered everything.

The wigs weren’t being sold on the human hair black market, by the way, because that’s not a thing. Mom must have taken an Ambien instead of a Xanax one day and forgotten that she instructed her wig attendant to pack Agatha and Christie off to the storage facility. I still don’t know why I’m always the one who has to drop everything to connect these kinds of dots for everyone in my family, but the real mystery here is why neither of those wigs is a Lauren Bacall pin-curled bob.

Anyway, from now on I won’t be falling asleep until the late-night booty call leaves. I don’t like surprises.

_**October the seventh**_

Lying in bed and I just remembered the last thing Ariadne said to me before she left the other morning. Something like “I’ll see you at my show and then maybe after that you can be the one to plan our next date.” God, can you imagine? Me making plans?

_**October the eighth**_

Well, I just got back from Ariadne’s “show” and the good news is I’m off the hook for making plans. Because there won’t be any more dates. I’ll write more later but for now I need to go ingest some carbs in a retail environment. I wish Bergdorf’s sold soft pretzels.

_**October the ninth**_

So. Turns out she wasn’t working on a fashion show at all. It was something called a “variety show,” which I do remember her saying, but I figured it was like, a variety of looks? But no. More like a variety of bad choices. A variety of embarrassments. A real Forrest Gump Russel Stover box of cringes.

I guess the concept isn’t all that different from the benefit for juvenile rhinoplasty Mom does every year, except there the point is just to be able to say you saw famous people do something, so I get it. Who are these people? Why do I care about seeing them do anything?

What they do is, they sign up for a slot, come up on stage, and show off their “talents” in front of an audience, and the only problem with this (besides the signups and stage and audience and everything) is that no one is capable of judging their own talents. Have we learned nothing from the cautionary tale that is American Idol? It’s called Reality TV for a reason.

All this to say: yesterday I was tricked, lured under false pretenses, into witnessing ~~acapella~~ ~~acappela~~ ~~accapella~~ people singing without instruments, however you spell it. They desecrated Mariah with weaponized beatboxing. I literally had to plug my ears. There are some songs that earnest white boys should just never cover, but try telling them that.

Ariadne wasn’t part of that, thank god. Her thing was

It was

Ventriloquism. She’s a

Ventriloquist

Like, she introduced herself that way. To the audience. In front of people. “Hi everybody, I’m Ariadne and I’m a ventriloquist.” Is a thing she said. Out loud.

She brought a plush puppet of a dragon on stage and had a whole conversation with it where she was speaking both parts but her mouth was only moving half the time because that’s it that’s how you do ventriloquism. Okay.

And she was funny and people laughed and she wasn’t terrible at it. She was very good, which was worse. It was worse, because it meant that afterward, when she found me in the crowd before I could leave, everyone who came up to tell her she did a great job and (ugh) high five her saw me standing next to her. And now they think I’m a person who willingly stands next to ventriloquists. A ventriloquist. A ventriloquist and her dragon.

The dragon was there. (It has a name, but I refuse to remember it, on principle.) I made a joke about how maybe it should not be there, about how maybe it should go away and never come back, about how maybe if it didn’t go away and never come back then maybe I would go away and never come back. Except it wasn’t really a joke, and Ariadne could tell it wasn’t really a joke. She didn’t laugh.

Instead she said we should stop seeing each other. She said, quote: “I like you, David, but I love myself.”

She said she wasn’t about to change anything about herself for me. What, did she think I was going to tell her I like her very much, just as she is? This isn’t a movie.

Imagine a puppet being this important to your self image.

“I love myself” she said, and “Maybe you should try it, David” which is an absurd statement.

I love myself. No one loves me as much as I do.

_**October the tenth**_

Wait, did I just get dumped for a stuffed animal?

**_October the eleventh_**

Okay, now that I’ve recorded that last entry in writing, I guess I have to burn this whole book. Except no, the lambskin doesn’t deserve that. Ugh. Fine. I’ll just ship it home to Adelina with my Philosophy of Art textbook and this map of the Whitney I don’t need anymore and let her bury it in the family storage unit for me. It’ll get good and lost in there.

I know that’s technically giving up, but if the professor wanted us to actually complete this exercise, she should have held us to something stronger than the honor system. Anyway, I don’t really think self reflection and expository writing are for me. I already know exactly what I think about everything, so what’s to expose, you know? Who’s it even for?

**Author's Note:**

> Um, what are you still doing here? Go read “[The Diary of David Rose: A Book Report by Alexis Rose](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28973526)” now!


End file.
